


If You Know You Know

by Bellelaide



Series: ENT [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: English National Team, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-07 09:18:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15905376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bellelaide/pseuds/Bellelaide
Summary: Here are a little collection of head cannons I have for these two, taking place after the events of Big Dick Energy





	1. Chapter 1

“John.” 

Jordan put a hand on John’s shoulder and shook him gently. 

“John?” 

John grunted, but he didn’t wake up. Jordan pulled at John’s eyelids, lifting them to expose the whites of his eyes. John frowned and moved his head back on the pillow. 

“John!” Jordan said louder. 

“What time is it?” John croaked. 

“Eh... like two?” 

“What’s going on?” 

Jordan sighed, propping his head up on his hand and facing John in bed. “I have to ask you something.” 

“No, I won’t marry you,” John said, closing his eyes and burrowing in under the duvet. “Go to sleep.” 

“How did they make the first ever tools if they didn’t have any tools to make them with?” Jordan asked. John’s eyes snapped open. 

“Tell me you haven’t woke me up to ask me that,” he deadpanned. 

Jordan just looked at him expectantly. 

“Do you not have Google on your phone?” John snapped, turning over in bed. “Please go to sleep.” 

“I like asking you,” Jordan said softly after a beat. 

John sighed, mouthed an expletive. He reached over and turned his bedside light on, then turned back around to face Jordan. 

“They could make knives and hammers and things using rocks and pieces of slate. Slate is really thin, sharp rock.” John yawned. “Those would’ve been the very very first tools, then they’d have used them to make others, and so on.” 

Jordan listened carefully, considering this. “How did they know how to make knives and that?” 

John yawned again, rubbed a fist across his sleepy eyes. “Instinct, babe.” 

“Thanks, John,” Jordan whispered, leaning over the top of him and switching the light back off. “I love you,” he said, kissing John on the head. 

“Go sleep,” John slurred, already half way asleep again. “Close your eyes,” he mumbled. 

Jordan sat up for a little while longer, wondering whether zebras are white with black strips or vice versa, but he didn’t wake John up again. He didn’t want to be insensitive. 

—

It was one of Jordan’s friends from home that first sent him the picture. 

They’d been at a training session for international break and the usual photographers had been milling around, snapping them as they mingled with one another. They were always told to act natural and pretend the cameras weren’t there. You got used to them after a while, able to tune out their presence. 

Jordan was walking down the street towards his car, his hair just cut and a warm Greggs folded in the crook of his arm that he couldn’t wait to get home and demolish. His phone pinged with a text and Jordan opened it absent minded.

The photo his friend had sent him was of him, laughing and looking down at his phone, and John. Jordan froze in the street, staring at the picture. John was looking at Jordan like he was personally responsible for the universe as a whole, like he was the funniest person on the planet, like he was saying something revolutionary and earth shattering. If Jordan remembered correctly, he was only reading John a tweet someone had written about Ronaldo’s son already having a better season than his dad in the kiddie leagues. 

The text accompanying this photo just said, “get you a man who looks at you the way John Stones looks at his GK”. 

Jordan looked at the photo again and then picked up the pace towards his car. He was going to get home and god help him, he was going to shower that man with love. 

He ate his steak bake whilst he drove, burning his tongue on the steaming hot meaty chunks, thick gravy dripping down his chin and puddling on his white t-shirt. He was glad he’d bought an automatic car, allowing him to use his left hand for important tasks like shovelling food into his mouth so that he could get home and worship the guy there waiting for him as quickly as possible. 

Jordan crumpled up the paper his lunch had come in and threw it into the passenger seat footwell, then opened his Lucozade one handed and glugged it, putting his foot on the accelerator so he could get through an orange light before it turned red. 

He wiped some excess pastry from his mouth and unlocked his phone, looking between the road and the picture in a questionable display of his driving skills. Oh John, oh lovely sweet John - the crinkles by his eyes, the look of his body in his uniform grey tracksuit. 

What had Jordan done right to deserve him? He didn’t know, couldn’t fathom that. Thinking about that too much would only bring eternal misery. Jordan drove home in record speed, willing the lights to be green and the traffic to be nonexistent. The universe must’ve been on his side, because his wishes were granted. 

He parked the car in the drive and hopped out, barely remembering to grab his wallet from the passenger seat. Jordan jogged to the front door, stuck his keys in it, let himself in. He slammed the door behind him and walked down the hall, sticking his head in the living room - empty - down towards the kitchen. 

John was stood there buttering a slice of bread, tomatoes and cheese on the counter waiting to be made into a sandwich, a protein shake on the other side. He was wearing a pair of shorts, no shirt, a pair of sliders. His hair was wet - he must’ve just got back from the gym. He glanced up at Jordan, saying “Hiya,” eyes quickly falling back to his sandwich. “Nice haircut,” John added, licking butter off his fingers. 

Jordan crossed the floor in a few sweeping steps and wrapped himself around the back of John, kissing his shoulder blades rapid fire. 

“Wow,” John laughed. “What’s this for?” 

“You love me,” Jordan stated in a breath, pressing his forehead against the tip of John’s spine. 

John hummed. “I love your ability to save goals, yeah.” 

Jordan shook his head, spun John around. “No. You LOVE me.” 

John blinked a couple of times, looking between Jordan’s eyes and his mouth in quick succession, glancing over the gravy mark on his top. 

“Did you get a Greggs without me?” 

“John.” 

“I love you?” He said, voice quiet, unsure. 

John had never, up till that point, said the words. Jordan hadn’t minded necessarily - he knew how John felt about him. He knew it from the look in his eyes when they were in bed together, the way he clung to Jordan when he was coming apart underneath him and mumbled nonsensical rubbish into Jordan’s shoulder. He knew it by the way John liked to be touching him at all times whilst he slept; a toe or a finger or an arm or his whole body. He knew it by the texts John sent him whenever they were separated, telling him about the minutiae of his day, desperate to know where Jordan had been and what he’d been doing. Jordan knew how John felt from the way John could never settle unless they were together; could never finish a meal unless Jordan was near him; could never put his phone down until they were in the same vicinity. Jordan didn’t need to hear the words to know how John felt about him. 

Jordan reached into his pocket for his phone and brought up the picture to show John. “Yeah, I reckon so,” Jordan said, watching how John’s eyes softened as he looked at the photo. 

“Oh,” John breathed. “Huh. Look at that, eh? Looks a lot like I love you,” he said, quietly, almost inaudibly. 

Jordan put his phone on the counter and kissed John’s mouth like he’d die if he didn’t. 

“You. Are. Amazing.” He said, punctuating each word with a kiss. “Amazing.” 

John hummed, hand coming to rest on the side of Jordan’s neck, thumb tip pressing down at the pulse point there. 

Five minutes later they were lying on the couch, feet dangling off the end as they kissed and moved against each other through their pants, unable to stop smiling and laughing and whispering into each other’s mouths. 

“We need to buy a bigger couch,” John said as he brushed his thumb back and forwards over Jordan’s nipple. 

“A bigger couch? You mean a bed?” Jordan teased, yanking his top off. “You think a couch big enough for two six foot lads to fuck on would be anything other than a bed?” 

“Should get a chaise lounge,” John said to himself more than anything else, patiently waiting for Jordan’s shirt to be gone so he could run his hands and mouth over the skin on his chest. 

“Can you put my balls in your mouth?” Jordan asked by way of answer, thrilled when John began making his way down in response. 

“Yes, Jordan. And you know why?” 

“Why, Stonesy?” 

“Cos I love you.” 

Jordan couldn’t help the big, goofy grin that burst onto his face, the warmth that spread through his chest. 

John pulled Jordan’s joggies down and off and was true to his word. He was licking Jordan’s left ball when Jordan said “John, bud?”

John hummed, “Yes?” 

“Did you see that picture of the two England lads? Know, those footie players? Bit fucking strange if you ask me.” 

John freed his mouth. “Why yes, Jordan, I did. The one where the defender’s looking at the goalie? If I didn’t know any better I’d say they were gay together,” he said in a fake posh accent, cocking a brow. “I’d say that skinny one’s in love with the chavvy looking one, in fact. 2018, eh, you just can’t make it up.” 

John responded to Jordan’s laughter by sucking his cock into his mouth, trying hard to keep a straight face when all he wanted to do was laugh and laugh and laugh. 

One thing led to another and John was riding Jordan’s dick, right there on the couch, one foot on the floor for leverage. Instead of the usual train of filth John usually spouted, he filled the air with words of love - how much he loved Jordan; how happy he was; how perfect everything was when they were together. 

After he’d come he collapsed onto Jordan’s chest and let him take him by the hips and piston into him, saying “I love you so bad” on repeat until Jordan was coming too. 

They lay there for a little while, Jordan drawing lazy patterns on John’s back, John picking at the dirt under Jordan’s nails on his free hand. 

“Jord?” John asked eventually, growing uncomfortable as the come underneath him dried. 

“Yeah?” 

“I was only looking at you like that in that picture because the camera was there and Gareth told us to look like we all like each other. I don’t really love you,” he said matter of factly. 

“Ahh, is that right?” Jordan said calmly. “My mistake, my mistake.” 

He shifted John so that he was able to get up without throwing him on the floor, grimacing a bit at the come. Jordan stood up and stretched, looking at the time on his watch. John looked up at him innocently, those big eyes that Jordan thought had no place belonging to a man in his twenties. They’d be more at home on a puppy, or a cartoon princess, or something like that. 

“That’s fine, like. If we’re being honest, too, I should tell you - I did have a greggs earlier, and I didn’t bring you owt.” Jordan smirked as a look of disappointment came over John’s face. “Sorry, mate. Mibby I’ll remember next time, eh?” Jordan winked at John and chucked him under his chin, gathering up his clothes and going to shower. 

John was a strange person indeed. But Jordan knew how he felt about him. He didn’t need words or pictures for that. 

— 

The City boys were on their tour bus and making their way to Anfield for a big game when John lost it. 

No one was exactly sure why, but he had started hyperventilating about half an hour away from the stadium. He was sat next to David Silva, who had taken out his earphones and looked at John and started panicking himself. “Help! John’s having a heart attack!” He screamed, standing up and looking around wildly. 

Everyone started flailing around and looking at each other in fear, Pep sprinting up the aisle from where he’d been sat at the front of the bus and shouting “Someone call an ambulance! He’s going to die! I can’t afford a new centre back!” 

Kyle had managed to get through the squash of bodies and restore order. “Everyone, fucking calm down! He’s having a panic attack! Move back, for fuck sake,” he shouted, trying to give John some space to breathe. “John, mate? You hear me?” 

John just shook his head, eyes fixated on a point somewhere out of the window, his breath coming fast and rapid. He was white in the face and sitting rigid, as still as a piece of furniture. 

“Breathe slower, John, c’mon,” Kyle coaxed, trying to remember what he’d seen Jordan do when John had had attacks in the past. Kyle clicked his fingers as he thought and looked around, unsure. “Count to ten, John, you can do it lad,” he said uncertainly. “Ah fuck - how far away are we?” 

“How fucking far?!” Pep called back to the driver. 

“About 40 minutes,” the guy shouted back. 

“Walker - fix him - we play in two hours!” 

Kyle looked at Pep incredulously. “I’m trying!” 

“Snap out of it Stones!” Pep cried, waving his hands dramatically. “Slap him across the face now, Walker!” 

Kyle looked away from Pep in disgust and tried to remember. Fuck, he could hardly breathe himself, everyone was staring at them and John was still freaking out, eyes welling with tears, seemingly unaware of the scene around them. 

“He’s going to pass out,” Sterling said. “He’s going to deprive himself of oxygen.” 

All of their medical staff were on the other bus, and they’d lost them on the motorway between Manchester and Liverpool. Pep started shouting in Spanish and Kyle pulled out his phone, searching through his contacts and tapping Jordan’s name with a shaky thumb. 

He didn’t pick up the first time, and Kyle growled in irritation. He tried again and after a few rings the call went through. “Sup?” Jordan said on the other end, sounding relaxed. 

“John’s having a panic attack and we’re playing in 2 hours,” Kyle shouted, talking too quickly. 

“What? Is he - where are you?” Jordan said, sounding more alert now. 

“Forty minutes from Anfield,” Kyle supplied. “What do we do?” 

“Fuck - alright, I can be there in thirty. Can you put the phone on loud speaker?” 

Kyle did so, holding his phone in front of John’s face. “You’re on speaker,” he said. 

“John? Can you hear me love?” 

John didn’t change, still hyperventilating, his hands digging white knuckled into his thighs. The bus fell silent, everyone listening to Jordan’s voice. 

“You alright, sweetheart? Has something gave you a fright?” 

John’s lip wobbled then and a tear splashed down onto his cheek, his face ready to crumple. 

“He’s started crying,” Kyle reported. 

“Heeey, don’t cry you dafty, it’s going to be okay, alright? You’re safe, John, you’re alright - Kyle? How calm are you?” 

“Bit panicked,” Kyle mumbled, still shaking with adrenaline. 

“Who’s around and calm?” 

Kyle looked around. “Kev?” 

Kevin stood up and squeezed into the aisle beside Kyle, looking at John like he was a plate of human poo that had been served up in a restaurant. 

“Can you get him to stand close to John?” 

“Already is.” 

“John, can you do me a favour? Can you take Kevin’s pulse for me? Can you count the beats?” 

They all looked at each other. John didn’t move, just flicked his eyes up to Kevin’s face. 

“Put his fingers on Kevin’s neck and wrist,” Jordan commanded impatiently. 

Kevin knelt closer and David gingerly prised John’s hands off his legs and put two fingers from each hand on the instructed points. 

“Did you do it?” 

“Yeah,” they all said at the same time. 

“Can you count the beats for me, John?” 

John closed his eyes tight and let out a sob, his head falling forward onto Kevin’s shoulder. “Go on, love. Tell me what his rate is,” Jordan coaxed. 

“One,” John gasped. “Two.. three... four...” 

“Good work, John, good stuff,” Jordan said gently. “Kyle? How far now?” 

“How far?” Kyle shouted at the driver. 

“Half an hour,” the guy grunted back. 

“Half an hour,” Kyle relayed. 

“I’m on the way there but the traffic’s shocking. Keep him counting Kyle,” Jordan said. 

They kept counting with him, and eventually John could breathe slower - still not great, but slower. 

“Can you take a big deep breath for me John?” Jordan said. John did, and Jordan praised him on the phone. It was enough to make David look out the window, embarrassed to be hearing it. “Another big one, that’s a good lad,” Jordan said. “Alright John, I’m going to be with you in twenty minutes, alright? Can you keep breathing for me? I’ll be right there, okay?” 

“Okay,” John croaked, eyes filling up again. “Okay, Jordan.” 

“Thank you Pickford,” Kyle said, bringing the phone back to his ear. “Come quick, Pep’s going to have an aneurism.” 

“See you shortly. Look after him,” Jordan said, and then he hung up. 

Kyle did what he’d been told, and Kevin stood there dutifully, letting John anchor himself through his steady pulse. The bus had to wade through the usual mob of Liverpool fans, and it only made John temporarily worse, until they were through the gates and parking up. 

The driver had barely touched the breaks when the door was opening and Jordan was climbing onto the bus, looking around for John. He saw them all grouped around at the back and flew up the aisle, squeezing past everyone. He was wearing his Everton uniform, and Kyle wondered what he’d been doing - had to have been training, or a shoot. He surely wouldn’t have left during a game. 

Pep was right behind Jordan, shouting and calling incoherently. “Better fix him, most important game of the season, don’t know who you are but you do not look like a doctor -“ 

“Will you fucking pipe down, you complete mad man?!” Jordan hissed at him. He turned around and finally was next to John. Jordan flicked Kevin out of the way and slid into the spot he’d been occupying, kneeling down by John’s legs. He slid a hand up the outside of John’s thigh and held his hand with the other, smiling sunnily. “I’m here, John, I’m here,” he cooed. 

John burst into tears, hiding his face in Jordan’s neck and nearly knocking him over. Jordan shushed him and soothed him and petted him whilst they all stood around and watched, fascinated. 

“What’s the matter, John? Did it come out of nowhere? Did something upset you?” Jordan whispered it into John’s ear, wishing the team would mind their own fucking business. 

“Grandad,” John mumbled unclearly. Jordan frowned, remembering - 

“What way did you come into the city?” He said suddenly, looking up at Kyle. 

Kyle shrugged. “Eh - A580?” 

Jordan sighed, held John tighter. “Oh John, I’m sorry, hey? You’re okay, you’re alright,” he said gently. He looked back up at Kyle. “His grandad died in a hospital in St Helens,” he said quietly, barely more than a whisper.  
Kyle knew how much John had loved his grandparents, but he didn’t know that. His face softened in sympathy. 

“Let’s get off this stuffy bus and get some air, yeah? I’ve got some fruit pastels in the car for you, bit of sugar,” Jordan said, rubbing his thumb back and forward across John’s cheek. “You’re going to be okay, love. C’mon,” he coaxed, pulling John gently to his feet. 

The rest of the team made room for John and Jordan to pass down the aisle. John held Jordan’s hand with two of his own, eyes downcast, heart beat finally regulating. They got off the bus and embraced tightly, hanging onto each other in the middle of the car park. Their peace was shattered when Pep’s voice made itself known to their left. 

“Can he play, strange goal keeper doctor man?” 

Jordan looked at Pep, blinked once or twice. “Yes, he can play. He’ll be alright. Do you really not know - I play for Everton, mate, and England.” 

Pep looked at Jordan blankly, then off to the left and back again. 

“Never fucking mind,” Jordan muttered, taking John to the car for the sweets. 

Pep boarded the bus again, looking at the team who were frozen in baffled silence after the events of the last half hour. 

“I don’t know what the fuck just happened,” he said, his accent thick, “but if we lost Stones, we’d all be fucked. Fucked. What is that man’s name?” 

“Jordan Pickford,” someone murmured. 

“What do I need to do? Do I need to fucking sign Jordan Pickford to City?” 

No one answered him, but Kyle definitely heard Ederson squeak behind him. 

“All of you, off the bus, now. Get fucking moving. Go, go, go! And Mike - find out how much Jordan Pickford costs. Shouldn’t be too expensive.” 

—


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first story of this second chapter turned out longer than I intended and I haven’t even started the other ones yet so I’m like.... I’ll just post this one standalone and make it a three chapter thing. There are no rules here, I can do what I want, freedom is mine xoxoxo 
> 
> TY for being just so lovely n great and indulging me. We’re all indulging each other, aren’t we? We’re all ridiculous and I love you all. Thank you for reading the nonsense I create!

International break was always a total lark. 

It was like a big lad’s holiday, a couple of weeks of goofing off and hanging out and just playing football for football’s sake. It was especially fun when they were playing friendlies and the stakes were low, the pressure was off. The boys all looked forward to it, always appreciated the respite from club football. 

Jordan and John were particularly excited. With their respective teams being in different cities, it was often hard to spend any quality time together - they’d be too busy, too tired, too far away from each other. At peak season their sex life always suffered. International break was a way to spend every day and night together, in peace, for two weeks. 

They’d packed their bags and got into their grey tracksuits and were dropped off at the training centre in London, greeting everyone excitedly; staff and players alike. There was no feeling like playing for your country, and after the events of the World Cup, the boys were bonded and close in ways they had never imagined they would be. It was like being back with family, like being at home. 

They had to mill around and do some photo op stuff, mingle and chat and fill each other in on their last couple of months apart. John and Jordan tried not to be insufferable about their relationship around the others but they couldn’t help the way they socialised as a pair, like a married couple at a cocktail party, finishing each other’s sentences and straightening each other’s clothes. 

And when they were separated they were still constantly searching for each other, John watching from the corner of his eye Jordan’s self assured gait as he wandered in and out of rooms, Jordan taking note of who John was folded in beside, where he was at any given moment. 

They got out onto the pitch and were worked bone tired by the coaches, pushed and drilled. Jordan’s legs were fucking killing him, his head bouncing with the effort of constantly anticipating the balls they were pelting at him. 

John was no better, exhausted after four hours of constant movement. Still, it was nice for both of them to be back with the lads, back in their comfort zones. John had spent the morning stealing glances at Jordan and thinking about what he’d ask him to do to him later. He was in the mood for something really slow and dirty and kinky; like maybe he’d like to play up and have Jordan spank him for it; put the goalie gloves on himself so he wouldn’t be able to wank himself to get off. 

John thought about it all day, excited and hot, looking darkly at Jordan across the dining hall when they ate dinner. He dumped his plates when he was finished eating and wandered up behind Jordan and whispered into his ear that he’d be waiting in Jordan’s room, he wanted to be fucked into oblivion, he wanted it to hurt when he did yoga tomorrow. 

Jordan was tired but he’d always find energy for that. He swallowed in response, said nothing, just watched John leave the room without turning back. Jordan was in no rush, finishing his meal leisurely and spending ages talking to Gareth about stories from his own days on the squad as a player. 

Duty called, however, and Jordan hauled himself up, stretched, said his goodnights. His stomach tingled with anticipation and his muscles ached in a nice, familiar way as he climbed the stairs to his room. Jordan put the key in the door and closed it gently behind him, stepping in and looking around for John. 

Jordan couldn’t help the gentle laugh that escaped his throat at what he saw. John was lying in the middle of the bed wearing his training shorts and one single white sock, bare chested. He was wearing Jordan’s gloves - the black ones - and was dribbling slightly onto the duvet, his cheek smushed against the sheet. He was utterly passed out, completely fast asleep, the thin skin of his eyelids ever so slightly purple with exhaustion and weariness. 

Jordan couldn’t help but take a picture first, and then he pulled off John’s second sock, tossing it away and removing the gloves. John stirred at the contact, frowning and smacking his lips together. 

“It’s alright, go back to sleep,” Jordan whispered, tugging at the covers underneath John and shuffling him towards his side of the bed. 

“Wanted you to fuck me,” John slurred, going easily, burrowing under the sheets as Jordan tucked them tight around his neck. “Smack my arse.” He added, yawning. 

“I will, later. You sleep,” Jordan said, kissing him on the forehead. 

John frowned, wanting to argue his case, but just as quickly he was fast asleep again, angelic, adorable. Jordan brushed his teeth and took off his clothes and then he slid into bed too. A rigorous sex session would’ve been great, Jordan thought, but that night, sleep trumped it. They had plenty of time, he told himself, closing his eyes and passing out himself. 

— 

They managed to sleep in somehow, so it wasn’t on the cards for the following morning, either. That was okay, it was fine - there was plenty time, plenty chances to make up for it. 

They got dressed in a rush, getting under each other’s feet, eyes tight with sleep. John usually liked to have a long shower in the mornings, shave and moisturise, look himself over a couple times in the mirror. They were woken up by a banging on the door, a southern accent shouting “Get up! You’re late!” They’d forgotten to set an alarm the night before in their exhaustion. Having missed out on his routine, John was now very, very grumpy. 

He got ready with a storm cloud over his head, eyebrows furrowed, mouth set tight. Jordan just ignored him, pulling his own kit on, dragging a brush around his teeth. John didn’t wait for him or say goodbye, just went out the door, stomping his feet dramatically like a little boy. 

Jordan chose to ignore him. He’d deal with John later. 

— 

When he got downstairs, Jordan saw that everyone was already out on the pitch. John was scowling with his arms folded, stood pressed against Kyle, listening to whatever Gareth was saying. Jordan jogged over and stood beside Dier, wishing he’d had time for a cup of tea. 

Gareth finished his speech and they all moved into position, Jordan taking up guard in goal. They were kicking the ball at him one by one, warming up, no force behind it. John stepped up to the ball, face like thunder, and booted it with all his might at Jordan’s head. Jordan just missed it, looking behind him incredulously, then back at John. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” He shouted, running out of patience. “It’s not my fucking fault you slept in!” 

“You were last in bed! You should’ve set an alarm!” John shouted back, and everyone looked away awkwardly. 

“Hoy, you two - enough,” called one of the coaches, clapping his hands together. 

“Set your own fucking alarm!” Jordan snapped, picking up the ball and lobbing it back at John. “Stop being such a moody fucker, John, it doesn’t suit you.” 

John stormed off, irritation coming off him in waves, and Jordan should’ve left it but he couldn’t. “Might want to feed your centre back, Gareth, put him down for a nap or something. He’s not got his big boy pants on today,” he called loud enough for everyone to hear. There was one awkward laugh but everyone else was silent, and John looked up at Jordan like he wanted to cry and Jordan felt bad. 

“Both of you, come here,” Gareth barked, moving to the edge of the pitch. “NOW!” They sheepishly shuffled to Gareth, not looking at each other. Gareth was livid. “I’ve warned you both never to let your personal lives get in the way of work. I swear to you both, right now, if I have to warn you again you’ll be gone. Keep it bloody well professional!” 

They nodded, murmured agreements. Gareth looked John up and down. “What the hell is wrong with you?” He said, impatient. 

“I slept in and I feel like shit,” John grumbled, staring at his feet. 

“Listen, do me a favour and sleep in your own rooms tonight, eh?” 

Jordan and John looked up at that, at each other and at Gareth. “But - “ 

“No buts, just fucking do it. You’re here to work,” Gareth said, taking no nonsense. “Get back to it, go,” he said finally, shooing them away. 

They parted and went back to training, saying nothing to each other, but both uneasy at the prospect of having to sleep alone. 

— 

When Jordan got to the dining room for lunch later that day, he instantly sought out John as per his usual habit. He was sitting at a table with Kyle and Dele and Ruben, eating a bowl of soup and laughing softly, his edges all smoothed out now that he’d had some food and woken up a bit better. 

Jordan made a beeline for their table. Kyle looked up and saw him coming and nudged John, and John put down his spoon and smiled a big smile and said “Pickford!” 

Jordan approached them and nodded at the other lads, then put his hands on the edge of the table and leaned forward, looking at John menacingly, one eyebrow raised and his shoulders bunched up behind him. He didn’t say anything, just shook his head ever so slightly as if to say - really? 

John looked up at him with puppy dog eyes, took another sip of his soup. 

“Do you want us to leave?” Dele asked, and Jordan shook his head. 

“No, I’m not stopping. Just wanted to see if his highness was done being ridiculous.” 

John just smiled at him, the picture of innocence. “Sit with us,” he said, nodding to the chair Jordan was standing over. “Please.” 

“Don’t you have something to say to me?” Jordan asked. 

“You’re really bad at setting alarms?” John said, eyes sparkling. 

“Wrong answer.” Jordan pushed away from the table and stalked off to get in the dinner queue, trying not to be enraged. John was doing it on purpose, he was sure. Still, it wound him up. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on him. 

“Do you have to antagonise him like that?” Kyle said to John after Jordan had left. “I feel bad for him.” 

“He likes it,” John said. “I do know when to stop.” 

Kyle had to take his word for it. They moved the conversation on, and were half way through a debate about Wembley being the best stadium to play in when Gareth cleared his voice and called for attention. 

“Lads, quiet down, listen up. We’ve decided that to ensure the productivity of everyone on the team and the staff, room visits are no longer allowed. You may use the common areas to socialise and spend time together, but no more going room to room, alright? Your room is your own private space - “ 

Groans and protests sounded, and Gareth put up a hand. “There’s no arguing. Anyone caught breaking the rules will be sent home for the duration of the break, no exceptions. This is more targeted at some than others, and you all know who you are. Let’s have some decorum, alright?” He finished his speech, and chatter slowly began again, lower and faster than before. 

“Cheers, John,” Dele whined. “Fucking blown it for everyone now.” 

John frowned at him. “Piss off! We’re not the only ones who room hop, it’s not my fault,” he snapped back. John looked over his shoulder at Jordan, who was glaring at him across the room. Their plans of a couple weeks together were now in the gutter. There was no way they could have sex in these conditions, and it’d be hard to get any kind of touch at all. Jordan was going to kill John - and John was so scared he was excited. If winding Jordan up had been his goal, John had far exceeded it. He stood up and rolled his back, stretching and bending over, making a little tiny itsy bitsy show of it. Jordan didn’t follow John out of the dining hall, but he’d come to him eventually. John was sure. 

— 

They finished their session, ate their dinners, went their separate ways. Half of the group went upstairs to be alone and the other half stayed downstairs in the newly designated communal areas. Someone brought down an Xbox and they got it hooked up to the TV in one of the conference rooms. 

That was where Jordan found John a little bit later, lying on his front and playing Kyle at Fifa. He walked into the room and sat down in one of the chairs, watching them play quietly. Jordan loved to observe John. He loved watching him do things he enjoyed, interacting with people he loved. Jordan had gone to a City game once a few months ago and stood in the stands with the fans, watching John on the pitch adoringly until someone had recognised him and it turned into a big cluster fuck of recognition and fans and selfies and he’d had to leave. 

There were others dotted around the room, watching and commentating on John and Kyle’s game. Kyle was winning, John not far behind, and they were all raucous, ribbing each other and laughing freely and getting into it despite how tired everyone must’ve been. Jordan put his chin in his hand and watched them fondly, watched as John failed to score a second goal and lost outright to Kyle. 

Kyle threw his arms up and cheered and John sat up and tackled him, half tickling him and half nipping him, and they were a bumbling ball of limbs and yelps until Jordan Henderson called “Right then, who’s playing me - Pickford? You for it?” 

Jordan sat up straight and John disentangled himself, looking behind him for Jordan. He sat there with his big long legs out in front of himself and let his arms flop down between them, smiling at Jordan sheepishly, cheeks pink. Jordan got up and walked over, patting John on the head. 

“Nah mate, not right now,” he told Henderson. “John?” 

John got to his feet, all six foot two of him, and folded his hands behind his back, ready to go wherever Jordan told him. “Am I in trouble?” He asked quietly, into Jordan’s ear. Jordan thought Kyle must’ve heard because he blushed a bit and looked away quickly, shouting that he’d play Henderson, winner plays on style. 

Jordan lead John out into the corridor, sniffing and crossing his arms. 

“You’ve been a little dick all day.” 

“Have I?” 

“You need to say sorry. Nearly took me head off this morning, John.” 

“I’m not sorry, though.” 

Jordan sighed. “There’s not much I can do about it right now, is there? We’re banned from room visits. You went too far.” 

“No one will be in the physio room at this time. They’ve got all those beds - “ 

“No fuckin way, John - “ 

“Aw please. C’mon, no one will see - I’m gasping - “ 

“No, just no, Gareth will fucking murder us - “ 

John crowded up to Jordan and pressed their bodies together, kissing him on the corner of the mouth, along his jaw. “I’m so full of energy, Jord. Please don’t leave me hanging,” he whispered. 

Jordan squeezed his eyes shut, took a breath, and pulled John in the direction of the physio rooms, shaking his head resentfully as they went. 

That area of the training ground was dark and empty, having been shut down for the night. Jordan and John snuck in, their hearts beating quickly as they thought about each other and the prospects of being caught. Jordan pushed John up against the wall and kissed him painfully slowly, barely even touching him with his mouth, lips and tongue ghosting tantalisingly. 

“Why do you need to be so fucking annoying?” Jordan asked, unzipping his hoodie. “Why are you like this?” 

John shrugged and tipped his head back against the wall, smiling dopily. “Why do you need to be so fucking annoying yourself? Making me sleep in like that, my god - “ 

“Tell me what you want,” Jordan interrupted, losing patience. 

“Smacked,” John breathed. 

Jordan walked to one of the physio beds and patted it twice, looking at John carefully. John came straight over, bending over the bed quickly, looking back at Jordan with those eyes, the ones that dripped with love and admiration. 

“You’re getting this because you’ve been a little shit all day,” Jordan clarified, running a hand up and down John’s back. 

“Please,” John said, pushing backwards toward Jordan. 

Jordan licked his lips, steadied himself. He cracked his knuckles and pulled John’s trousers down, exposing his bare bum. He brushed his fingers over it a few times, experimental. Goose bumps rose under his skin. 

“You know, John, I used to stare at you at training and that and think that your body was fuckin unreal. Like, I didn’t know if I wanted to be you or be on you. I was fuckin mesmerised, man, could hardly concentrate on the ball. I told myself I’d get used to it before long. And you know what, John?” 

John hummed in response. 

“I’m still just as fucking obsessed with you. Never getting used to this,” he trailed off, then he bit his bottom lip and slapped John on the arse. 

The sound of skin on skin rang out in the silent room and both of them felt the blood rush to their dicks at John’s involuntary squeak, both thinking, hey - this is fucking brilliant. 

Jordan raised his hand and was half way to spanking John again when he heard a voice behind him shout “Oh my GOD! Pickford!” 

Jordan turned round so hard he hurt his neck, and John jumped up like an electric shock had been sent through him, grabbing for his trousers and looking at the door, bright red. 

Harry Kane was standing there, face the picture of shock. “John! Are you okay?!” He cried, mouth hanging open. “Jordan, I’m calling security, this is - “ 

“Oh my god,” John and Jordan groaned at the same time, Jordan turning away from Harry and pinching the bridge of his nose to keep himself from exploding. 

“No, Harry, you’ve got the wrong end of the stick - “ 

“He can’t hit you, John! That’s abuse! Come here, there’s people can help - “ 

“I’m not hitting him, you daft fucking twat,” Jordan said, looking at Harry with a death stare. 

“It’s consensual, Harry - it’s - like, spanking, you know,” John babbled, and it was Harry’s turn to go red. 

“Like... fifty shades of grey?” Harry said quietly, having the grace to look embarrassed. 

“Eh - sort of, Harry,” John said patiently, wishing he would fuck off. 

“Oh... I’m sorry lads,” Harry said, covering his eyes with his hand. “Shit, I’m sorry, guys,” he said, starting to walk out backwards. “I didn’t see anything,” he said as he walked into the doorframe, before turning around the proper way and making his exit. 

Jordan looked at John with bulging eyes. John looked back at him, clearly trying not to laugh. “Oh, Jord,” He said eventually, a laugh escaping him anyway. 

“That wasn’t fucking funny! He just accused me of beating you up!” Jordan snapped, not in the least amused. 

“Aw Jordan, he’s too innocent, you know what he’s - don’t leave! Jordan, c’mon, finish us off,” John called after Jordan, who was making for the exit. 

“No fucking danger,” Jordan said over his shoulder, taking himself to his room so that he could agonise over his embarrassment in peace and quiet. 

— 

Jordan and John both slept terribly that night. John was loathe to admit that they were co-dependent, preferring to cling to the idea that he was unattached and free as a bird. He could think that all he liked; but he still didn’t fall asleep till 2am with knots in his stomach because Jordan was six doors away and for the time being, he was all alone in the world. 

Jordan opened his door that morning and John was stood outside, waiting for him. He was on Jordan in milliseconds, smelling of shampoo and mouthwash and that fancy Clinique Men cream he used. Jordan was soothed by John’s presence, by the familiarity he brought. 

“We have to talk to Gareth,” John said. “Can’t stand another night like that.” 

Jordan kissed John good morning and then started walking in the direction of the stairs, humming in agreement. “Fuckin brutal that last night, like. Yeah, we’ll have a word with him later,” he said, thinking about Frosties versus toast and jam with cheese. 

“I couldn’t fucking sleep,” John whined as he followed behind. “Still feel like shit today. Still haven’t been shagged either,” he added, like Jordan wasn’t well aware of the fact. 

“Might’ve thought of that before you started an argument in front of everyone yesterday,” Jordan said. 

“Alright, yeah. Not my finest moment.” 

“We’ll find time, John. I’ll find time.” Jordan kissed John on the cheek, and then made his way into the canteen for breakfast. 

— 

Jordan pulled John into the bathroom at morning break, sweaty and horny and was about to get on his knees and give a blowjob when someone banged into the loos and started doing a poo in the cubicle next to them, which was a complete mood killer and halted them in their tracks. Whoever it was started singing “oh, Harry Maguire,” under his breath and the boys swiftly gave up on any sexual plans. 

—

John texted Jordan during lunch to come and meet him in the store cupboard. Unfortunately, one of the interns had got there before Jordan, and had nearly had a heart attack when he opened the doors and one of the players had emerged from the darkness and grabbed him. They’d had to go to the managers and have the guy sign a nondisclosure, John had been absolutely bollocked - luckily the intern found the funny side after a while, and they all narrowly avoided a national news story. 

—

Jordan had had enough during the afternoon session when they were having a nutmegging competition and John had gotten a ball through Chilwell’s legs and had leapt into Kyle’s arms, legs around his waist, hands around his neck, and Jordan was so overcome with childish jealousy it was embarrassing. Enough was enough. Jordan wasn’t a rule follower and he wasn’t bloody scared of Gareth or getting in trouble. He wanted his time with John and so help him, he was going to have it. 

— 

Jordan waited until 1am to slink out of his room on his tiptoes. He crept along the wall stealthily, pretending he was James Bond or that guy from Mission Impossible or Sandra Bullock in Miss Congeniality. Jordan was not a dainty man, nor particularly elegant, and he couldn’t help thinking John should’ve been the one to come to him. 

Still, he used his best spy skills to creep down the corridor to John’s room. Once there he knocked the door seven times - two fast, two slow, three mixed - and slid in when it opened up for him. “The fuck was that knock?” John hissed, but Jordan shut him up with his mouth. 

They didn’t have much time, but they didn’t need it anyway - they came together in a desperate need to be close and possessive. They shagged quickly and clinically, wasting no time, not stopping to talk shit as they usually did. 

And when they were done and satisfied and their bones were like jelly they kissed their goodnights, soft with each other in a way they’d never, ever, ever admit to in front of an audience. When they were on their own John wasn’t an annoying little ball of energy; Jordan wasn’t aggressive and loud and commanding. They were just a pair of twenty four year old boys who shared a love for tracksuits, football, Nike air max and chips and gravy, who both found Keith Lemon funnier than he was and thought there was no paradise on this earth that could compare to the San Antonio strip in Ibiza. They both knew what it was like to be flung out of a club when you were 16 and your mate had started a fight in the toilets, they both knew the excitement of 3 litres of Strongbow in a park when you could see your breath in front of your face and your fingers were so numb you struggled to press play on your Sony Ericsson W600. John and Jordan both understood how it had been at school to desperately want a black Helly Hansen jacket, how cool it was to have an exotic font on your Bebo and how it felt to have been staring down a career of labour work - joinery, gas and electrician apprenticeships - and to have missed it because by some stroke of dumb luck they were talented, incredibly talented sportsmen, with drive and determination and families who had nurtured and supported their growth. They’d come from lives where their first cars were 3rd hand Vauxhall Corsas and now they were rich beyond belief, with big flashy Land Rovers and extortionate Cartier bracelets (well, that was more John) and Omega watches with diamonds in the face. 

All the lads on the team got it to some extent, but there were still differences between the ones who’d grown up in London - stories of busses in the dead of night from Camden raves to their parent’s homes in the suburbs and all the wacky characters you met there, stories of city life where being a teenager meant finding a discipline like football or becoming embroiled in a gang - things were different along the North and South divide; and it was different still across class lines, wherein the middle class men on the team didn’t get it when the working class ones lost their mind over a bottle of White Lightning someone had smuggled in to an awards party for the shits and giggles. 

All of this was contained in the way Jordan and John stood behind the door of John’s training ground bedroom and kissed the way they’d learned growing up - no tongue was shit, too much was embarrassing. It was unspoken in the way Jordan’s stubby bitten down nails dragged along John’s upper arm, in the soft skin of John’s left earlobe that, if you were careful enough, you could still feel the phantom hole of a past piercing in. In the mixing of their spit was an almost identical experience of the 2006 World Cup, of going into school to show off the Nike tick shorn into the side of your head, of Asda’s own Three Lions t-shirts and trainers. Mum and Dad bellowing at the TV at lost games, Dad going down the pub and disappearing for hours - but not before angrily ripping the St George’s cross out of the upstairs bedroom window. It was this shared common culture that now culminated in the chance to reverse those fortunes personally - in carrying the weight of not just the nation, in its fractured and divisive state, not just the hopes and dreams of family and friends,but the weight of childhood disappointment and fantasy in your hands, on your back, terrified of fucking it all up. They represented a new England, where culture was broad and varied and it was good to see a woman walk down the road in a Niqab on one side; a couple of blokes holding hands on the other. They were a new style of football where it wasn’t about the celebrity of it all but the love for the sport, a kinder and better sense of nationalism to replace the ugly tone it had taken on in years gone by. 

Through it all, they would have each other. They would never be as understood by anyone else, not in a million different lifetimes. They knew so many people now from so many different corners of the world and through all the change and upheaval home had become a person - a person who lined up with your own parts and history and experiences like two sides of the same zipper. All of this, every last bit of it, hung in the air between them and passed between their bodies as they kissed and it was in this way that they understood why they were so close, so reliant on one another, so into each other. Fuck Gareth’s room ban; fuck schedules that kept them apart and the ever lingering intolerance of society. Together they were more than a pair of people, they were England’s past and its future and its presence, anthropomorphising itself in everything that they were and everything they would be. 

John kissed Jordan as much as he could before he had to reluctantly open the door and shoo him out again. He’d sleep better with the smell of Jordan lingering in his nostrils, with their connection hanging around in the air of his bedroom. Jordan left as quietly as he came, sneaking once again into the dark corridor, lit only by an emergency exit sign at the far end. 

Jordan was creeping towards his room when a door opened to his right. He froze, panicked - he’d say he was going for a drink of milk, that was it - and almost died when he saw that it was Gareth, leaving Kane’s room. Jordan’s eyes bulged. 

“Are you lost?” He asked, and Gareth jumped. 

“Fuck - Jordan? Er - “ 

“Discussing tactics at 3 in the morning, aye?” 

“Listen, it’s not - “ 

“You don’t have to explain. Just - lift the fucking ban, eh? It’s pointless.” 

Gareth just stared at Jordan, well and truly caught with his pants around his ankles. 

“Well, night then. See you in the morning.” Jordan said pleasantly. He carried on towards his room, feeling smug. Maybe he and John would get their week together after all. Maybe things were looking up. Maybe, just maybe, he was the luckiest bastard alive, and it was all his for the taking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you say hi to me on tumblr it makes me so happy, so... to quote Liam Gallacher, I’m not desperate or anything, I just think it would be a nice thing to do xxx belle-laid.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

Jordan was in his room, upstairs, absolutely fuming. 

He was so annoyed, so unbelievably irritated, because John had invited the Man City boys round for a fucking poker tournament and dinner and they were being loud, lairy and commandeering of his house and would not fucking leave. 

John had asked Jordan if it was okay sweetly, and Jordan had said of course - this was John’s place too; and besides - it was a one off. This was not a weekly occurrence and Jordan could make himself scarce for a few hours. 

They’d arranged to come over at 3pm and be gone by 8. Jordan had disappeared at 2, kissing John and getting into the car. He’d gone for a Nando’s with some friends and then did some bits and bobs around the Trafford Centre, picking up a birthday present for his mum and some candles for the house. After that he’d had a phone call with his manager and then had ended up driving round to another friend’s house to camp out for a bit and have a cup of tea. 

When Jordan had driven up to the house at approximately 8:37pm, cars were still all over the drive. Jordan parked his car and opened the door and could hear a quiet thump of bass coming from inside the house. He stood there for a moment, disbelieving, and watched the moment that Vincent Kompany stumbled out of the front door and proceeded to pee in the fancy bushes Jordan’s mum had painstakingly grown in the front garden. 

“Hey!” Jordan shouted, affronted. “What the fuck are you doing!” 

Kompany looked up with drunk eyes; had the audacity to look at Jordan like HE shouldn’t have been standing there. 

“Stop pissing on me Rhododendrons!” 

Kompany peered at him as he stuffed his penis back into his jeans and then his face lit up in recognition. “Jordan!” He stepped out of the bushes and stuck his head in the front door, shouting “Stonesy! Your man’s back!” 

Jordan stared at him in disbelief, his mouth hanging open. The music was louder with the door open, and Jordan was worried about what his neighbours would say, much to the horror of his inner teenager. 

“Come inside!” Kompany said enthusiastically, approaching Jordan and pulling the bags he was carrying out of his hands. “Come and have a drink!” then he turned back into the house, shimmying his shoulders to the beat as he went. Jordan watched him dump the bags in the Hall and bound off towards the kitchen. Unbelievable. 

He shook his head and went in himself, ears assaulted by the music. Someone - if hard pressed, he’d guess Kanye - was repeatedly saying “I’m a sick fuck, I like a quick fuck,” and Jordan was irrationally annoyed at the vulgarity of it. Inside he could hear voices, boisterous male voices chanting in one direction, shouting in the other, singing in another. 

Jordan walked past the living room first, and most of the Spanish speaking team members had assembled there, drinking and talking animatedly. He noted that one of them had their shoes up on his sofa and that there were empty beer cans littered everywhere, like the place was a camping ground at a festival. None of them looked up at his presence and Jordan kept walking, into the dining room. Kyle, Sterling, Sané and that Ukrainian one, Jordan couldn’t remember his name - were playing beer pong with his fine crystal champagne flutes; the ones his Aunt had given him as a house warming gift. Jordan just looked at them in awe. 

“Pickford!” Kyle bellowed, bounding over and enveloping Jordan in his arms. “How you fucking doing?!” 

“Alright Jordan!” Sterling shouted over, focussed on his next toss of the ball. The other guys nodded at Jordan in acknowledgement but turned back to Raheem, coaxing him to shoot. 

“Where’s John?” Jordan asked flatly, not in the mood for a reunion. 

“He is in the kitchen with Hart,” Sané said over his shoulder. 

Jordan was baffled. “I thought he left City?” 

“Once a blue, always a blue!” Screamed the Ukrainian guy, and the rest of them cheered in agreement. Kyle went back to stand beside Raheem and they yelled madly when he got the ball into one of the flutes. 

Ukrainian guy picked up the glass and necked it messily, spilling something pink onto Jordan’s floor. 

“Hoy! Litvinenko, watch the fucking mess!” Jordan growled. 

“Excuse me?” The guy said, offended. “My name’s Oleksandr!” 

“Play with us?” Kyle asked hastily, trying to avoid a fight. “Bet you’re shit hot at beer pong!” 

“Beer pong’s for gimps and Americans,” Jordan muttered, heading for the door. “Clean up me fucking floor!” 

He made his way to the kitchen. When he got there he saw John and Joe in the corner, leaning into each other, talking quietly and conspiratorially. John had his flirty face on, the one with the half lidded eyes and slow blinks and soft mouth. John had long had a thing for goal keepers - he’d told Jordan that as a teenager, he had so many posters of Peter Crouch in his bedroom that everyone thought he wanted to be a goalie himself. He didn’t want to BE one, just wanted to shag them. 

Jordan watched as Joe said something and John laughed exaggeratedly, subconsciously leaning on an extended leg and popping his hip to make himself significantly shorter than Joe. Jordan could see instantly that he was drunk, embarrassingly so, three sheets to the bloody wind. He stepped into the room proper, eyebrows raised. 

“You alright, Harty?” He said softly, unmenancingly. 

Both heads spun around quickly. “Jordan!” Joe said warmly, coming over and shaking his hand, pulling him into a one armed hug. “How’s it going?” 

“Not bad, bud, not bad - how’s Burnley?” 

Joe laughed gently, shrugged. “It’s different. It’s alright,” he said, smiling. He dropped his voice. “John’s a bit worse for wear,” he nodded over his shoulder. Jordan looked around him at John, who was standing there patiently waiting, lit up like Christmas at the sight of Jordan. “Hasn’t stopped talking about you for the last two hours, though.” 

Jordan was mad at him, thoroughly unimpressed with the whole fiasco, and he tried to bite his lip to prevent a smile from breaking out across his face in answer. 

“Got a bit out of hand...” John supplied, inching closer. “There may or may not have been a bottle of Fireball...” John got to Jordan and merged into him, draping himself over Jordan like satin sheets on a bed, fog over hills on a cold morning, like latex over the curves of a body. 

Jordan put a hand around his waist possessively and looked at Joe once in the eyes in warning - he wasn’t worried John would be swayed or scared Joe would try it, but he wanted to make sure there was no room for doubt. “I’m so pissed off at you,” he whispered into John’s ear, hoping he could tell even in his drunken stupor that an almighty row was on the horizon. 

John groaned into Jordan’s shirt, clearly not in any state to take him seriously. Then he looked up like he’d had a eureka moment. “I know what we should do!” He slurred, looking excitedly between Jordan and Joe. 

“Throw everyone out and tidy the fucking mess up?” 

“We,” John said with a grin, “you, me and Harty - should have a threesome.” 

Joe’s eyes bulged and he went bright red, grabbing the cup he had set down on the counter and backing up. 

“Oh my god,” said Jordan, mortified. “Joe - take no notice, mate - John! Shut the fuck up!” 

“Aw please, it’d be fun, we could ask Ederson as well - “ 

Jordan extracted himself from John then, the notion too ridiculous to even entertain with an answer. 

“Jordan! Don’t go!” John called, but Jordan had had enough, knowing it was useless talking to him when he was drunk like this. He back tracked past the beer pong game, stomped past the living room where it looked like Aguero was leading the boys in a fucking seance, grabbed up his bags and went up the stairs. 

Kompany, De Bruyne, Ederson and fucking Phil Foden were in the bedroom having a heart to heart. Jordan booted open the door and glared at them. “Get out. Now!” He snapped, even more enraged. He looked at Phil. “Are you even old enough to bevvy?” 

Phil blinked at him. “Yes. Don’t you Newcastle lads start drinking when you’re ten?” 

“I’m not from fucking Newcastle,” he said. “All of you, get out me room!” 

They retreated, thankfully, but not without an awkward silence and pointed looks at each other. Jordan let it slide because he didn’t want to embarrass himself by causing a scene. The door closed behind them and Jordan sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, unsure of his next move. He briefly considered calling his own friends and teammates and taking over the place, showing them what a real house party looks like, but he found he didn’t have the desire to get pissed himself and just really wanted to have a cup of tea and a good sleep. There was a time and a place for a rager. A Wednesday night at 8pm was not it. 

Jordan lay in bed and tried to watch Netflix, turning the volume up to compete with the sound of the music and rowdy voices from downstairs. After forty minutes of trying to get into Sons of Anarchy, Jordan gave up and turned the TV off thanks to the somewhat distracting sounds of that “oh, Kevin DeBruyne” chant coming up the stairs.   
Twenty minutes they did it for, twenty fucking minutes! Insufferable twats! 

That chant was eventually replaced by an acappella rendition of wonderwall by Oasis. Jordan was fully laid out on his back staring at the ceiling as he listened to them butcher it, only a handful of them aware of the lyrics. Jordan was going to get John back for this in such a big way, he mused. He was going to throw the mother of all parties with coke and ket given out at the door and proper rave music, fucking MC Tazo and that. John would rue the day, honestly, he would. 

Jordan was lying there fantasising about all the things he was going to do to exact his revenge when there was a knock at the door. He planned to ignore it - no he would NOT like to come downstairs and sing Angels by Robbie Williams arm in arm with fucking Riyad Mahrez and Aymeric Laporte - but a voice, definitely Kyle Walker, started wheedling his name through the door. “Jordan? Mate? John’s throwing up,” he said, and if Jordan had rolled his eyes any harder he’d have burst a blood vessel. 

He rolled out of the bed and pulled open the door. “Kyle? Call up and have enough taxis come to get you all home, alright?” 

“But - “ 

“No buts, it’s nearly eleven at night and you all started drinking at fucking three. Seriously, I need you all to leave, now.” 

Kyle put up his hands in defeat, moving aside so that Jordan could go down the hall and downstairs. He stomped down the stairs for effect and came into the living room purposefully, unplugging the sound system at the wall. Everyone shouted and turned to look at him, the sudden silence jarring. Jordan stared back. 

“Party’s over! Taxis will be here shortly! Get your shit together!” He shouted, choosing to ignore the sudden iterations in mother tongues that swept the room. Jordan left again in search of John, his ridiculous, seemingly incapable of looking after himself, alcohol intolerant John. 

He found him hugging the toilet bowl in the downstairs bathroom, Hart standing awkwardly behind him offering half hearted reassurances. Joe looked up and saw Jordan and exhaled in relief, making way for Jordan hurriedly. He garbled something about his mrs being outside to pick him up and bolted towards the front door, leaving Jordan alone with a retching John. 

“Jord?” John croaked, turning his head marginally away from the splash zone. 

“What have you drank?” He asked, rubbing up and down John’s back rhythmically. 

“Er...” he took a gulping breath, goose bumps breaking out down his arms. “Whisky, vodka, some rosé. Jordan, make it stop, I feel so awful,” he moaned, beginning to shake. “Why did this happen to me?” 

Jordan pulled a face at the dramatics, wanting desperately to tell John that it was all his own fault but knowing that wasn’t what he needed. 

“You’ll be alright in a few minutes, okay? We’ll get you some water and put you to bed and you’ll be right again,” Jordan said, wondering if it was wise to have John sleep in their expensive bed sheets. 

Kyle stuck his head in the door and said the taxis were on their way, and he’d gather everyone up. “Do you need anything?” He asked, nodding at John. Jordan shook his head and then cooed at John as he threw up again, making enough noise with it to wake up half of England. 

Jordan went and got John a glass of water and waited with him until he felt stable enough to leave the toilet floor. He was drunk and exhausted and clingy and Jordan wished he could carry him up the stairs, but he had to make do with an arm around his waist, supporting most of his weight on the long journey to their bedroom. The stragglers were heading out the door as John and Jordan passed, and they called their goodbyes awkwardly, no one jealous of John’s state or Jordan’s responsibility to deal with it. 

Jordan dropped John onto the mattress and pulled off his jeans, turning round to throw them into the laundry basket. When he came back John was asleep already, mouth wide open, dead to the world. Jordan rolled John carefully onto his side, propping his leg at a ninety degree angle to act as a doorstop for his body, and went to the upstairs loo to fetch a basin and towels just incase. Jordan swept through the house to check everyone was gone and lock the doors, turn off the lights. The place was a wreck, but he’d let John deal with that tomorrow. 

Jordan took off his own jeans and climbed into bed, settling down with a smug smile on his face - peace, at last. He didn’t know that in six hours, he’d walk downstairs and see that somebody (Oleksandr and Phil) had squirted an approximation of “EVERTON FC SHITE” on his Laura Ashley wallpaper in the dining room in ketchup. But that was hours away - a minor detail; facts schmacts. For now, there was silence, karma for John in the post, and Jordan was happy enough with that. 

————————————————————

John had to admit that he’d received a little bit more... attention since the World Cup. 

He wasn’t sure exactly why - he’d thought he was perfectly prominent before it all. He played for a big club, he had done plenty of England appearances in the run up. Still, things had really gone wild after the events of the summer. John had become a British football sex symbol. 

His comments on Instagram had once been lads arguing about how good a defender he was or whining about a tackle he’d made on a player they liked or asking where he’d gotten a particular pair of shoes he was wearing, but now he was inundated with comments from girls - tagging their friends, talking about how hot he was, sending him DMs with their numbers and addresses and sometimes even pictures of boobs that he had never asked to see. 

They’d been sat down by the press team a couple of weeks before they were due to fly to Russia and told that their lives were going to change after this, that it would be different for their families and their partners and friends. They would become household names over night, they were told - things would never be the same. 

They all found it utterly bizarre that they couldn’t go down the street now without being stopped for a selfie. Some of the lads were better suited for it than others, relishing the attention, basking in the fame. Others were uncomfortable and made anxious by it all, never having intended to become a celebrity. John could admit that he’d received lots more attention since after Russia. He could also admit that most of that attention was female. It didn’t really bother him. It was a bit weird, but he took it in his stride, handled it well. No, it was Jordan that worried John the most. John fretted that Jordan couldn’t handle the unwanted attention and that it would make him unhappy - even if he’d never admit it. 

Jordan loved to tell stories about John’s new found celebrity, regaling their company with sarcastic comments about life after the World Cup. There were the times that they’d go out for dinner and people would come right up to the table, confident as anything - and give John their number. Jordan had vowed never to go clubbing with John again after an incident involving three women (two being D listers from Love Island) trying to give John a simultaneous lap dance in the middle of the club. Any time they tried to go out to Tesco to get food, John would receive four numbers, five selfie requests and three Instagram usernames, and Jordan would rant the whole way home that he must’ve missed it when he started going out with Justin fucking Bieber. When he was asked if he was jealous, Jordan would snort and laugh and say not at all - he wasn’t a jealous person. He wasn’t like that. 

John, though, took it all well, for the most part. He liked to brag to Jordan about it in a jokey way, laughing about how popular he now was. He came in from work one night and walked breathlessly into the living room, his cheeks tinged pink with the cold air outside. 

“You’ll never guess who DM’d me on Insta,” he announced, standing in front of the TV. 

Jordan just looked up at him despairingly. “I dunno,” he muttered, trying to see around John’s legs so that he could continue watching Emmerdale. 

“Aw go on Jord, have a guess,” John insisted. Jordan rolled his eyes. 

“Kim Kardashian?” 

“If any of the Kardashians messaged me I wouldn’t even bother coming to tell you about it. You’d just see me on Keeping Up driving a Lamborghini and babysitting the kids.” 

Jordan snorted, shifted himself so he could see a sliver of the TV. 

“Alright, fine,” John said when he realised Jordan wasn’t going to guess any more. “Emilia Clarke!!” 

Jordan looked up at John. “Who?” 

“Khaleesi from Game of Thrones!” 

Jordan was still confused. 

“Fucking Sally out of Spike Island.” 

“No way!” 

“Yes way!” 

Jordan shook his head in incredulity, huffing a laugh. “You really are mr popular, Stonesy,” he said, shuffling over even more on the sofa. Jordan only called John by his last name when he was annoyed or really really horny, and judging by his face, this was a case of the former. 

“Don’t be like that,” said John, sitting down beside Jordan. 

“Like what?” 

“Moody.” 

“You want me to be happy that Hollywood stars are messaging the lad I’m seeing?” 

“Isn’t it nice to know all these people want me but only you can have me?” 

“Is that true though?” Jordan said snappily, looking John in the eyes. John recoiled a bit, wounded. 

“No, it’s not, you’re right. I’m taking her for a drink on Tuesday,” he said sarcastically. “What’s your problem?” 

“Haven’t got one.” 

“Yes you have.” 

“Fuck off then,” Jordan said, eyes back on the TV. 

“Excuse me?” 

“Seriously, why don’t you go and message that girl? You’re obviously excited about it. You sure you didn’t message her first?”Jordan said venomously, and John was really, really hurt. 

“I don’t know what your fucking problem is, Jord, but I don’t ask for all the attention. I don’t like, flaunt myself or that. I go out there and I play football and I come home to you at the end of the day. I don’t post fucking selfies or that on Instagram. I’d post pictures of you, but you won’t let me. I’m excited because a big celebrity thinks I’m alright looking! And you’re being a total dick about it. It wouldn’t kill you to be proud of me,” he said, his voice breaking at the end. John stood up and left the room, taking the stairs two at a time. He let a couple of silly tears fall before he took a breath and composed himself - Jordan was just being a dick. He’d come around. John wasn’t going to cry over it. 

He ran a bath for himself and sank into it with a deep sigh, letting the warm water give him a comforting hug. His muscles were sore in a good way from training and he relished the way the water soothed them, the bubbles crackling on the surface around his ears. John lay there until the hot water turned lukewarm, feeling too relaxed and lazy to get out. He was almost dozing off when Jordan knocked on the door and pushed it open gently, looking sheepish. John opened one eye and looked at him then closed it again, saying nothing. Jordan came and sat on the floor alongside the tub, silent. 

Eventually he put a hand in the bath and placed it on John’s stomach, trailing his fingers back and forward. 

“Don’t make me hard when I’m annoyed at you,” John said eventually, and Jordan laughed a little bit. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it. “I’m sorry John. I am happy for you, and I’m so proud of you it kills us. I don’t... I don’t know if you know, but John, I get so jealous about you, and I hate that,” he confessed. 

John pretended to be shocked. He did not point out to Jordan that when people approached them at dinner, nine times out of ten Jordan would point blank ignore them when they addressed him, would wrap his legs around John’s under the table, would glare menacingly at the often innocent people who just wanted a picture (Jordan always refused if they seemed like they were flirting with John). John did not say that the time they’d gone clubbing and John had been accosted by the three D listers (who had actually just come over to say their boyfriends were fans, but according to Jordan, they were all over John) Jordan had made a beeline for John, sat so close he was basically on top of him and shouted something along the lines of “fuck off and bother someone else’s man, you clap ridden tramps.” They’d only avoided a huge fight and a national scandal by John promising to get them signed Harry Kane tops. John kept his mouth shut instead of saying that every time they went to Tesco Jordan stared at everyone they passed as if daring them to ogle John and when they did, put his arm around John’s shoulder and splayed his hand over his chest in a clear display of propriety. Jordan used to go through John’s Instagram comments and report the particularly friendly ones until John had told him it was both unhealthy and unattractive, and Jordan had pouted for a bit but had thankfully never done it again. 

Jordan was so jealous when it came to John that it was almost comedic - it was known on the team that Kyle was the only one Jordan wouldn’t get pissed off at for being overly tactile with John; it was accepted that flirting with him would earn you the wrath of Jordan Pickford. But John didn’t want to embarrass him; he knew how proud Jordan was. 

“You do?” He said, looking intently at Jordan. 

“Yes. And it kills me because I can’t make it obvious that you’re mine. I’m not allowed to kiss you in public or show you off or have you wear me shirt at games. So this is new to us, and it’s fuckin weird and I get down about it.” 

John sat up so that his face was level with Jordan’s and kissed him. 

“You don’t ever need to worry about me, alright? I’m never going anywhere,” John said quietly. “And if it bothers you then it bothers me. We’ll talk to our people, right? We’ll see what we can do about being more obvious in public.” 

Jordan gulped and looked eagerly at John, his mouth suddenly dry. “Really?” 

“Of course. I do love you, Jord.” 

Jordan kissed him, putting a hand on the back of John’s head and holding him there. “I want to fuck you,” he said breathily, putting a hand into the water and wrapping it around John’s cock. 

“Get in the bath then,” John said, getting quickly hard in Jordan’s hand. ‘Let there be no confusion about where my heart lies,’ John thought as he fattened up quickly. ‘Let there be no doubt.’

Jordan pulled off his clothes and climbed into the bath. With both of them in there the water was perilously close to the edge but they didn’t care. John opened his legs and Jordan nestled between them, kissing John where his head was tipped back against the edge of the tub. It was needy and proprietorial, clingy almost in the way they licked into each other’s mouths and pressed against each other eagerly, like the water stuck between their bodies was too much of a barrier, too interfering in their pursuit of each other. 

They switched places after a while, water sloshing out of the tub as they manoeuvred. Jordan stuck his fingers inside John and John worked himself back on them, hand on Jordan’s chest for leverage, the muscles in his thighs working over time to compensate for the lack of room they had crammed into their white porcelain bathtub. 

“You’re so hot,” Jordan said, looking up at John’s face. “You’re literally so fucking hot.” 

John smiled briefly then his face fell serious again, focussing on the feel of Jordan’s fingers, losing himself in his concentration and the sensation. When he was like this he was entirely Jordan’s, completely and utterly at his mercy, and it was as sexy as it got for them, the biggest high off the pitch that they could ever hope to get. 

To ensure better leverage John turned around so he could ride Jordan backwards and sank down on him expertly. Jordan watched helplessly as his dick went in and out of John’s body, stretching him out. They didn’t pay attention to the water as it slapped the bathroom floor, totally wrapped up in each other. 

“I’m only yours,” John breathed, speech slower than normal. “All yours.” 

Jordan stretched a hand up his back, marvelled at his pale skin next to John’s tanned back. “I’m gonna come any minute,” he said back, trying his best not to blow it all there and then. “You’re going to make me come, John. I love you so much, man.” 

John gripped the sides of the bath and rode home, chasing it and moaning and whining and splashing around and then coming into the bath water, back ram rod straight, head tilted back. Jordan let himself go too, holding tight to John. As soon as he was able he sat up and held John’s back to his front, breathing heavily into his skin, cheek pressed to John’s spine. 

Then they had to get out. John nearly broke his neck when he stepped out onto the tiles, slipping a little bit with how wet they were. Jordan caught him and John made a joke about safe hands that made Jordan groan. Jordan went and got a big white bath towel and wrapped it around John’s shoulders, kissing him on the forehead as he stroked his hands up and down his back and arms. 

Jordan wrapped a towel around his own waist and they went into the bedroom, Jordan sitting down on the bed first and John climbing into his lap, yawning sleepily. “Never need to be jealous, Jord,” he said. Jordan just hummed, playing absently with the hairs on John’s shins. 

“I am so fuckin proud of you. So fuckin lucky,” Jordan said back, stifling a yawn. 

They kissed lazily and then they wandered downstairs for tea and toast, naked and satisfied and in love. John fell asleep first later that night and Jordan lay awake for a bit, stroking his hair and watching the gentle flicker of his eyes behind his eyelids. He couldn’t help but be jealous, couldn’t reign it in. Jordan knew it was going to be hard sharing John with the public and his teammates and everyone who wanted a piece of him now that he was a big, hot commodity. But the best part was that John didn’t care about any of it, only Jordan. And that, he could live with. 

————————————————————

It was the final of their international break fixtures and Gareth had selected the second team to play; reasoning that they needed more exposure to international games and the first team could do with the break. 

Jordan and John were on the subs bench, feet up and relaxing. The game was going alright - Rashford had scored a goal eventually which was a relief, and the game was at 1-0 when the other team started really pressing the England side, putting their defence to work. Southgate had entrusted Tarkowski with John’s usual role in the middle of their defending line up but he was clearly struggling; failing to keep possession of the ball and uncomfortable in a 3 formation as opposed to his usual 4-4-2. If they were to work on their new style of playing out from the back then Tarkowski would have to be better, and yet he lost the ball continually, eventually steering clear of it altogether. Maguire and Walker floundered in the wake of this shit show and it was clear that the team were missing something. 

Gareth was on edge, eager not to be responsible for the first fourth consecutive loss in England’s history. It came as no surprise when he marched over to John on the bench and told him to go and get his kit on - he had to play. John jumped up eagerly, thrilled at the chance - he was itching to get out there and do his bit, to try and take control of the game again. 

John bounced to the edge of the pitch, full of energy and adrenalin, shirt and shorts bright white and fresh. He bounded onto the pitch, took his position, got right into the game. Almost immediately the ball started heading for the England net once again. John was on it, ready, determined, body low as he anticipated the course of action. It was coming right up the centre and he darted forward, waited for the right second, and threw himself down in the path of the ball. 

It whacked off his right thigh and John felt first the slap of the leather against his skin and then a flash of pain against his head, shooting through him like the crack of a whip. John cradled his head, groaning, unsure where exactly it had come from or if he was okay. He carefully sat up, blinking in the light, bringing his fingers to his face. They were red with blood, but he felt alright - he wasn’t dizzy, wasn’t in excruciating pain. 

Shaqiri was on him, pulling him to his feet, apologising profusely. John was aware that a formation for a corner was taking place around them and he shook it off, told Shaqiri it was fine, started moving to do his job. Then Kyle was there and he grabbed him, and John was smiling because he was fine and Kyle looked so worried and John was proud of himself for preventing a goal. Kyle took his head in his hands and tipped it down, assessing his wound. 

“Not too bad,” he muttered, but then he motioned for medical to come over and told John better to be safe than sorry. 

“Let me see to this corner then I’ll go over,” he said, and Kyle nodded, taking his own position. 

It was uneventful, and John was soon making his way to the edge of the pitch. The medical team assessed him and asked him if he was okay; if he wanted to keep playing. He did, he felt fine. The game was nearly over. He’d be alright. 

The rest of the game was boring and passed quickly enough. The full time whistle went and they had done enough to secure a win. John did a lap of the pitch, clapping for the fans, shaking hands with the other team, congratulating his own. John was on a high - it had been a boring game but he’d done what he needed to. It was nice to get to play, even if only for half an hour. 

John was walking with no great rush towards the stands, ready to get the blood showered out of his hair and maybe get something to eat; he was peckish. He grinned at Gareth and winked at Chilwell and then he saw Jordan. 

Jordan looked frantic. John was confused, going over to him a bit faster. “What’s wr-“ 

“Are you okay?!” He cried, grabbing hold of John and tilting his head this way and that, looking for things the professionals might have missed. “I’ll kill him! I want him fuckin pulled up!” 

“It was an accident, Pickford,” Gareth muttered darkly beside them. “Get inside, both of you,” he urged, a hand on John’s arm. “You okay John?” 

“Totally fine, I’m alright.” 

“You did good out there. Really good, Stones,” Gareth praised, and John felt warm pride spread through him. 

“You’re fucking bleeding, John, you’re - “ 

“Inside, Pickford!” Gareth said, moving them towards the tunnel. “He’s okay!” 

“Okay? How’s he okay? Are you dizzy, John? Are you light headed?” 

John looked at Jordan and frowned, putting a hand on his shoulder. “M’alright, Jord. Honestly.” 

“Can you just get your stuff and come home with me, please? I want to look after you,” he said quietly, still checking John over repeatedly. “I want to take you to see a doctor.” 

“No way,” John replied, walking into the changing room and pulling his shirt over his head. “I don’t need a doctor.” 

Kyle came up and clapped John on the back, and Jordan folded his arms. 

“Thanks for looking out for him,” Jordan muttered, in a manner that said it pained him to do so. 

“Any time, Picks,” Kyle answered, flashing him a sunny warm smile. “No one hurts Jordan’s baby and gets away with it,” he teased, and John threw Kyle daggers and swatted at him half heartedly, happy to play up to the role for Jordan but always embarrassed whenever anyone else said it. 

“Get your stuff, John.” Jordan insisted, fed up of sharing him. “I want to get you home.” 

Jordan and John said their hasty goodbyes and then they were walking to Jordan’s car, silence heavy between them. Jordan opened John’s door for him and John chose not to say anything, sitting down in the seat and reaching for his seat belt - but Jordan beat him to it, reaching across to buckle John in. John slapped at his hands and pushed him back, face a picture of disgust. “Laying it on a bit thick, Jord, even for you. You’re like that fucking vampire from Twilight.” 

Jordan said nothing, his jaw going. He closed the door and got into the car, turned the key in the ignition, started out of the stadium parking. 

“Did you have to play like that?” He said eventually, like he’d been willing himself not to but in the end couldn’t help himself. 

“Like what? Like a defender?” 

“Yes. Do you have to put yourself in those positions?” 

“Do you really want me to answer that?” 

“I can’t fucking see you hurt like that, man, it bothers me - “ 

“Someone’s stud scraped my head. You’re acting like someone pulled out a machete and chased me up and down the pitch.” John said flatly, uninterested in this. 

“You’re never playing football again. I’m wrapping you in cotton wool. I’m moving you up north and you’re going to be wrapped in blankets and hand fed all day.” 

“Jordan,” John laughed despite himself. “I’m alright, really.” 

Jordan took John’s hand and kissed his fingers, swiping John’s knuckles back and forth across his lips. They drove in silence, and then Jordan said “I’m so glad Gareth never played me because I’d have gone fucking berserk if I were out there.” 

“Jord, when you look at me do you literally see a china vase?” 

Jordan snorted. “No. I see a human being with soft skin and squishy organs and the lankiest body I’ve ever seen and a complete disregard for personal safety - I never see fuckin Kyle Walker throwing himself down for a slide tackle - and I feel responsible for looking after you.” 

“Do you think you have this belief that you have to take care of all your partners because they’ve always been women? Because that’s not true, Jordan, not even with girls. You don’t need to be constantly protecting and giving. It’s okay for people to take care of themselves, know what I mean? It’s okay to have people take care of you, too. It’s not all on you.” 

Jordan mulled this over in silence. After a while he said, “Where do you get all this?” 

“I’m reading a book about toxic masculinity and male mental health,” John answered. “It’s very good.” 

They fell back into silence, driving up the motorway in the dark. After a while, Jordan cleared his throat. “John?” 

“Yes?” 

“You played really well. That save was incredible. And the team fall apart without you.” 

John squeezed Jordan’s thigh; smiled out the windscreen. 

“Jordan?” 

“Yes?” 

“I know.” 

—

Despite his big speech, John let Jordan give him a bath and wash his hair like he was a newborn baby, dissolving into laughter when Jordan started trying to support his neck in the water. “I’m 24!” He spluttered, but Jordan just told him to pipe down. 

John let Jordan dry him off and pick out his pyjamas but, when they were in bed in the dark and under the sheets, Jordan let John be the big spoon for once. He allowed him to stroke his back soothingly and whisper cutesy reassurances that Jordan had to actively work not to disagree with. 

John was proud of Jordan. He felt like this was a step in the direction of personal growth, and that made him happy. John did not ever find out that the next day, when Jordan was alone, he screenshotted pictures of Shaqiri and sent them around his friends and roasted the poor guy alive, but what John didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. 

Baby steps, baby steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People have made requests which I plan to fulfill so I guess I’m doing that now? Feel free to hit me with some, I’m game if you are! Thanks again you lovely lot xxxx

**Author's Note:**

> Belle-laid.tumblr.com


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